I’ve been blessed with the opportunity to reside in the tranquil quarter of Goa. This is a state many Russians call home for the tourist season; some even beyond that. But as a local living in the tiniest state in the country, it doesn’t take very long to discover pretty much all of it. So, I pulled a reverse card and went exploring in the colossal country of the Russian folks instead.
The sheer scale of Russia will forever hold me in awe. It is, after all, the largest country on the planet. With 11 time zones, you could squeeze India right in there along with four of its identical siblings. It’s also twice the size of the second largest country, Canada. And, there are approximately 1.2 billion less humans in Russia than in India. As a motorcyclist, that translates to pristine stretches of untainted wilderness. As a Goan, it translates to the average Russian lake being multiple times the size of the entire state.
Initiation By Iron
For years, I’d been dreaming of riding an Ural through the wilds of Russia. Of course, none of this would be possible without my wife, Polina. Since she is from Russia, her familiarity with the language and Cyrillic script is what allowed this whole trip to manifest. After some intense digging around on Russian motorcycle forums, Polina managed to find Ivan who restores and rents old Urals to anyone who dares tame these beasts. When she gave me the news, I was both elated and anxious. Would these bikes even handle the rough terrain on the route we’d chalked out? Little did I know. We’d decided to explore the Altai Republic in Southern Siberia, a mountain region near the Mongolia border. No camera crew, no back-up vehicles; just the Urals, my friend JP Singh, and us.
Nestled in the northern foothills of the Altai mountain range, our journey began in Gorno-Altaysk. As we exited the airport, we had our first glimpse of the Urals. These chariots from the early ’90s would carry us through the Altai Mountains. Originally World War II bikes that were reverse-engineered from BMW R71s, the Urals were christened M-72s by the Red Army. These ’90s models were the real, raw deal. Drum brakes, carburettors and 650cc of boxer-twin torque; these were bikes that were designed to keep going, no matter what.
When handing over the bikes, Ivan, the owner, seemed sceptical about the route we’d planned and whether we’d manage to even complete it on these bikes. When I told him I’d be writing a magazine article on this ride, all he said was, ‘Don’t.’ He didn’t expect us to enjoy the bikes much. But our eagerness to get the adventure rolling didn’t allow that to dampen our spirits. His parting words to us were, ‘These are iron bikes for iron men.’
Asphalt Surfing
The first day, we rode south along the Chuysky Trakt, a highway that runs from Novosibirsk all the way to the Mongolia border. This was the first time I was riding a motorcycle with a sidecar, while JP had some previous experience with a Royal Enfield in Dubai.
Thankfully, the first stretches of highway getting out of Gorno-Altaysk were relatively straight, but the sensations were unnerving, to say the least. Not having any lean on a motorcycle is rather disconcerting. Imagine you’re riding/driving a rickshaw, but instead of sitting in the middle, you’re to the left. And there’s a battle tank of a sidecar to the right with a passenger in it. And the rickshaw wants to do nothing besides go in an absolutely straight line. My brain was disposing of muscle memory at an alarming rate as the miles went by. But my arms seemed to be gaining it equally rapidly.
Although the bikes were moving in a relatively straight line, there were always some corrections to be made to keep them going that way. Holding a turn at highway speeds meant locking your outer arm and then adjusting the pushing force on the handlebar according to how the Ural was bouncing. Remember, three wheels meant this wasn’t a linear bounce at all, literally the opposite of what you’d do on a conventional motorcycle. Luckily, the rear brake also extended to the sidecar wheel, so the bike was stable under braking and there wasn’t too much unnecessary inertia from the sidecar.
We made our first stop for the night on the outskirts of the village of Barlak; our arm muscles sore from the wrestling bouts we were having with the Urals. This was a cosy little homestay nestled amongst rolling hills. It even had a neat little vegetable patch that we had full access to. That night we had a simple meal of bread, cheese, meat and some fresh greens from the garden, and called it a night.
Let’s Twist Again
The next day, we had a distance of 170 km to Malyi Yaloman. Sure, that doesn’t sound like much on a modern motorcycle that does half the riding for you. But on the Urals at highway speeds, it was like trying to straighten out a metal rod while being inside a washing machine during its spin cycle. These are motorcycles designed for getting you anywhere. But with a top speed of about 90 kph, just not very fast.
As we got up into the winding mountain passes is when we learnt that you still need to lean into corners to keep the sidecar on the ground. Images of Sidecar TT racers with their co-pilots pulling off incredible acrobatic acts floated through my mind. It’s when I told Polina to lean into corners, too. If the sidecar lifted, only straightening the steering would get it back down. And that would send us directly into oncoming traffic. And with the heft of the Urals, probably straight through it, too.
The further south we rode, the landscape transformed from rolling green hills to a drier landscape with scarcer foliage. We snaked our way through the rocky cliff sides as the road hugged the Katun river. Our stay for the night was at a campsite just beside the river in simple wooden cabins. Basic as they were, the surrounding landscape was encapsulating, completely different from the terrain of the previous location, and a lot sandier. That night, we grilled some meat that we’d carried with us from Gorno-Altaysk.
A Forgotten Realm
As with old motorcycles on a long ride, the next morning we did an overall check of the Urals. All that was needed was an engine oil top up and the bikes were all set to go. That day we were riding further south to Aktash along an off-shoot of the Katun river called Reka Chuya. We decided to stop enroute and check out some prehistoric petroglyphs just beside the highway. Keeping tourist indulgences to a minimum was always the plan, but since we just had a 100-km ride that day, time was a luxury we could afford.
An abandoned petrol pump further down the road really caught my intrigue. Stopping at an analogue pump with analogue motorcycles seemed like the appropriate thing to do; the fact that it had 80-octane petrol when it was in service was evidence enough of its antiquated tale. Of course, when we did fuel up at a functional pump a little down the road, the 55 Rouble-per litre cost of petrol made this whole bubble of a bygone era seem even more real. With the Rupee and Rouble conversion rate almost the same, these were our petrol prices in India back in 2010.
This would be our last stretch of the Chuysky Trakt highway. A traditional wooden cabin hidden amongst towering pines would be our abode for the night. And yet again, the mountains gifted us with a new landscape. The next morning, we visited the nearby Ozero geyser lake since it was just a few kilometres down the road. With its stark turquoise hues, it stood vibrant against the mountain backdrop.
To The Mountain Gods
As we got towards the outskirts of Aktash, we began our gradual ascent into the actual mountains and further away from civilisation. Before that we made a quick stop in town to restock on groceries. An older gentleman could not help marvelling at the Urals. A quick chat revealed he used to own one earlier and was surprised to see them still running and up in the mountains. But it was time to start our actual climb and really test the Urals’ mettle. The roads got narrower and the traffic scarcer, winding through the lakes as wild horses scattered the landscape.
We crossed through the famous Red Gate, the entry into the towering mountains. A friend had recommended we make a quick stop at Baza Valentina and we decided to take him up on it. To call this a quirky place would be a gross understatement. From the old cars and motorcycles suspended atop logs of wood, to the skulls, antlers and bones hanging off the wooden cabins, the place had a rather hermetic yet cheerful atmosphere.
The highlight was being invited for a quick meal with the enigmatic owner Valentine himself, who insisted we share in his catch of the day — pike and smelt. He also insisted we try some of his homemade Kumis, a medieval beverage made from fermented raw milk. ‘The drink of the gods,’ is what he called it. He wanted us to stay and chat longer, but we still had more riding to do that day. The warmth and humility of the Russians is something I’ve long admired.
It was onwards and upwards to Ulagan. As we got further into the mountains, the tar eventually faded to off-road, and this was where the adventure truly began. We rode to a little campsite just before town and this time we were in a dense forest area beside a cheerful little stream. While it may have been a pleasant 8 to 14 degrees Celsius at the time, we were told the mercury in some places in this region drops down to -40 in the winters.
As always, our neighbours were truly intrigued by the Urals and two random Indians in the middle of nowhere. A great conversation starter, no doubt. But here in the mountains, off the beaten path is where we found the true travellers. We spent the evening chatting with Yvgeniy, an aeronautical engineer who drove almost 5000 km all the way from St. Petersburg with his family in his bright orange Patriot SUV. And again, the only reason we could indulge in conversation was because we had Polina providing us with accurate translation.
We grilled some meat for dinner and Yvgeniy even gifted us this cured pork that his father-in-law made at home that was absolutely delectable. He assured us that he would leave a bit later than us the next day in case we needed any assistance on the way. An ominous sign, to say the least.
Nerves Of Iron
The next day would be one of the toughest rides either JP or I had ever done. We rode through some intense off-road patches that would pale in comparison to what lay ahead — the infamous and treacherous KatuYaryk mountain pass.
We stopped just short of the pass as the tree line opened up and revealed the magnificent Chulyshman Valley below. That’s where we had to go. JP and I have done numerous mountain passes before, but we underestimated what lay ahead. Steep, narrow and uneven, the pass was plastered with a surface of loose gravel and sand; only 4x4s could scale it. Luckily, we were descending that day.
We questioned whether the 30-year-old drum-brakes on the Urals would even hold as we approached the first section. Polina was almost at my helmet’s level in the sidecar through some of the uneven sections. Contemplating a topple and then an 800-metre drop wasn’t a thought that had ever crossed my mind. We literally crawled down the pass, praying the whole time that the brakes would hold, all the while having to find slightly wider sections that we could stop on to allow the oncoming SUVs to pass.
We finally made it down, drenched with sweat despite the temperature being just about 16 degrees, our arm muscles worked to the core. That’s when Ivan’s prophetic words, ‘Iron bikes for iron men,’ echoed through our minds.
We spent the rest of the day riding the trail that runs beside the Chulyshman river all the way to the tiny rural town of Balykcha. With the landscape constantly transforming around us as we made our way. We had to keep the speeds above 50 kph to smoothen out the ridges that formed across the trails by fast-moving cars. Anything lower than that and we were being rattled to the high heavens.
When we finally reached our camp, we were thoroughly spent. JP was totally knocked out by the time we got to our cabin. But what’s an evening by the river side without a barbecue? JP woke just as our meal was done and we were ready to hit the hay. He spent a hearty evening with our neighbours around the campfire, making the utmost use of Google Translate.
Be Strong, Like King Kong
The next day was for rest. We were greeted by Aleksey and his group of friends, JP’s campfire mates from earlier who were on their annual fishing trip. When Aleksey found out I was keen on doing some fishing myself, he gave me some hooks that wouldn’t need bait and told me exactly which spot to fish at. Another piece of advice that he gave us about 40 times was, “Drink Altai water, eat Altai fish, sleep. Be strong, like King Kong.’
Of course, the conversation and company were so great that they insisted we have vodka shots with them at 9:30 in the morning. It was after I gifted them some feni that I’d carried with me from Goa. They liked it so much that they couldn’t see us not indulge in the revelry. Ah, well, it was our rest day after all, so we readily succumbed.
Our morning ended with Aleksey again insisting we join them for lunch at a nearby cafe. He wanted to give us a taste of the true local cuisine. We were treated to pilmeny (tiny meat filled dumplings), lagman (a wholesome soup with noodles, meat and vegetables) and pirogi (a sort of flat-bread stuffed with cheese). After that, they just wouldn’t let us chip in for our share and said it was their treat. We thanked them for the genuine hospitality and parted ways.
That evening, Aleksey’s advice and gift were both spot on. Within an hour of dangling the hook in the water, I managed to bag two Arctic graylings. Not bad for first-time fishing in that region, I thought to myself. And being the fantastic husband that I am, the task came to Polina to clean and gut the fish, and onto the grill they went. We really weren’t expecting freshwater fish to be that enjoyable, but the white flesh was tender, flaky, and delicious. It didn’t have a very fi shy taste to it, surprisingly.
Across Liquid Gold
The next day we had a short ride to the majestic lake Teletskoye. Nestled amongst the soaring mountain peaks and untouched forests, with its mysterious dark depths plunging to 325 metres in some places. This is the largest lake in the Altai mountains. We’d be crossing the gargantuan lake from the southern to northern end aboard a ferry that would take us a whole five and a half hours.
The scary part here would be getting onto that ferry. There was no approach ramp or jetty. We’d have to ride our bikes through the loose sand on the shore and get up the ferry’s ramp that was designed for cars — which meant it had a gaping hole in the middle that we could fall right through. It’s moments like these that involuntarily teach you precision riding on a Ural.
Our ferry was the trusty old Vostok. Once we were aboard and the ferry pushed off, it was impossible to not just get completely absorbed by the lake’s soothing beauty, while the cool spray from the bow wave pleasantly hit our faces.
The ferry’s captain, Vyacheslav, and his first mate, Oleg, were encapsulated with curiosity. As we got into the open stretches of the lake, he invited us to his cabin for a cup of tea and a chat. And boy, was it a lovely one. We learnt more about the lake and the region and he confirmed some of his thoughts about India after reading about it for years. He told us that we were the first Indians he’d met and this was the first time he’d ferried Urals across, too. We spent the rest of the voyage lazily lounging about the ferry and just soaking in the natural beauty.
At the northern end of Lake Teletskoye, we disembarked at Artybash. This was a tourist town. A far cry from the wilderness we had just emerged from. We just got to our hotel and decided to call it an early night. We had a long ride back to Gorno-Altaysk the next day. But we did try some maral dumplings before that. Maral is a large species of deer quite similar to the sambar deer we have in India.
Dreams Of Rumble
Our ride back to Gorno-Altaysk was relatively easy. By now I had gotten into the Ural’s rhythm and was holding a much quicker pace. The winding mountain roads gave way to a straighter, flatter highway as we descended from the mountains.
The closer I got to our drop-off point, the more the feeling of disappointment was starting to set in. Not just because such an epic adventure was coming to a close, but because I’d have to hand over the Ural. By this point I’d fallen in love with it. After all the harsh punishment we put them through, they were flawless.
Ivan was beaming when he learned that we thoroughly enjoyed every moment riding them. It wasn’t something he expected. We handed over the bikes in exactly the same condition he gave them to us. With a little love, dedication and attention to detail, these Urals will keep going for another few centuries. That’s the charm of old motorcycles; I know I’ll certainly be making space for one in my garage soon.
From the hard-working, no-nonsense warmth of the Russian people, to the echoes of the opposed-twin exhaust note in my dreams for days after, this is by far one of the most rewarding rides I’ve ever done.
